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Chapter Text

It was a Thursday night and the Taylor-Harris family was having a late dinner consisting of hamburgers and fries, in a booth, at the unusually crowded Klawicki’s.

“Do you think maybe it could possibly be empty?” Michael Taylor asked, annoyed while dodging his co-parent’s elbow. Said parent, Joey Harris, was busy using the bottom of a ketchup bottle as a drum.

“There’s some left,” Joey said and pointed out the specks of ketchup still left in the transparent bottle.

“I’m sure those atoms will feed our starving daughter too,” Michael replied sarcastically and if the bags under his eyes were anything to go by, he was tired.

“You’re the one who soaked your fries,” Joey argued.

“Soaked!?”

“Dads!” Nicole interrupted, bringing their brewing argument to a halt, and their attention on her. “I’ll just ask Klawicki for another bottle. It’s really no big deal.”

“No,” Michael said and stood up. “No, I’ll do it. Have you seen the crowd by the counter? You’ll get swallowed whole and disappear forever.” He looked over the heads by the counter, because there were a lot of heads, mostly belonging to tipsy college-aged kids in penguin suits and pretty dresses, asking for fries only and sodas, and Klawicki looked to be barely holding it together as he went back and forth.

“I can survive on salt,” Nicole reassured him over the voices getting louder and louder.

“We’re not goats,” Michael told her. “Except your father.”

“Very funny Michael. You wish you could grow facial hair,” Joey joked and triumphantly made a “tada” sound when something landed on his fries.

Michael shook his head and moved to get to the big wall of kids. Klawicki spotted him and smiled but his attention was quickly diverted back to the paying customers. For a second, Michael debated throwing out his own yell for attention, like someone at an auction, but then a voice tugged him in the opposite direction.

“You can take ours,” a guy said, smiling a too-white smile. He was a slim, tall, dark-haired, penguin-clad, college kid, with his friends waiting on him three tables down. He had a half-empty ketchup bottle in his hands.

“Sure, thanks,” Michael said, accepting it. Then, a worrisome thought occurred. “Say, is there a party in this building?”

“There was,” the guy said. “Why? You want to join?”

Michael almost laughed. “What? No. No. My daughter’s studying for a test, and I thought-.”

“You want us to keep it down.”

“Right.”

“Too bad it’s over then,” the college kid replied with a lazy smile, which made Michael feel uncomfortable, including the weird conversation. Was there a joke he didn’t get here?

“Too bad, yeah, but thanks for uh.” Michael looked at the bottle. “This.”

“No problem,” he said and kind of shrugged his shoulder casually and relaxed, or at least pretending to, which added to the weird sense of something prank-like being pulled. “Now, it’s really too bad. We’d love to have you over.”

“You’d love to have me, a boring adult, over?” Michael asked in disbelief and almost winced at the Joey-influence of his thinking. He wasn’t boring. It was just that men in their thirties and kids in their early twenties didn’t mix very well. What did you even talk about with kids? It was hard enough following what Nicole liked from one day to the next.

“Yeah, why not, you’d fit right in. You’re already dressed up.”

“Excuse me? Oh, the suit, no. No. Work.”

The guy nodded and still smiled. Was he standing closer than before?

“Hey, Michael!” Joey was signaling for the precious bottle and his poor miserable fries.

“Well, anyways, hopefully, I’ll see you around,” the guy said and went back to his group who were pretending to not look in their direction.

Michael repeated his thanks and hurried over with the bottle.

Joey gratefully and gracefully squirted some more out on (dunked) his and their daughter’s plates.

“Who was that?” Nicole asked, her head turned to the guy who had graced them with more ketchup.

“Someone way too old for you, honey,” Michael replied sternly, but confused. He fiddled a little with his tie, looked at his own suit, and then looked at the other kids and their ties and suits. “This is a normal suit,” he said to himself.

Joey and Nicole’s eyes met across the table, and they both looked at Michael.

“Don’t tell me the kid insulted your suit,” Joey said, taking a few fries.

“Why wouldn’t it be a normal suit?” Nicole asked, and then she quickly glanced back to the back of the head of the guy, before turning back to her fathers.

“He more or less said I looked dressed up.”

“You do,” Joey and Nicole agreed.

“Yeah, for work. This is a work suit. This is a work tie.” He held his tie up for emphasis. “He insinuated that I looked dressed up for a party.”

“You do,” his family repeated.

Michael’s eyebrows and pointy went up. “No, anyone can see that this is work attire. I have pens in my pocket for god’s sake!”

“Why do you have pens in your pocket?” Nicole asked.

“I forgot to take them out,” he confessed, then sighed. “You know what. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“So, you’re going to shut up and eat now?” Joey asked pointing to Michael’s full plate. 

“Yeah, but this suit, Joey – I’m kidding. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Joey repeated.

“Yeah.”

It took ten minutes, and two empty plates for it to matter again. Nicole was finishing up the greens that had spilled out between her burger buns when the college kid and his friends passed their table on their way out.

“This is kindergarten through college all over again,” Michael said when they were out the door, and Klawicki’s was starting to die down.

“No one made fun of you behind your back in kindergarten,” Joey replied smiling, finding the idea funny. “Michael gogo gahgah?”

“I grew up in a very mean neighborhood Joe.”

“The meanest thing about it was your mom’s curfew,” Joey replied.  

“What makes you think they were making fun of you?” Nicole asked.

“Well, sweetie, as a master of bullying 101,” Michael started and sat up and set his elbows on the table as if he were in an important business meeting. “And remember this, so if it happens to you, you can tell us. Now, he gave me a weird compliment-insult-sandwich.”

“Okay,” Nicole spoke slowly, doubt heavy on her tone. “What if it was just a compliment?”

“Honey. I don’t think anyone compliments anyone by saying they look dressed up. He meant stuffy. No-fun. Corporate.”

“Boring. Joykill. Grown-up.” Joey added and grinned at his co-parent. “Michael.”

“What makes you think it was an insult?” Nicole asked before her dads could start a lame argument.

“For one,” Michael started and held up a finger. “He was smiling.” Another finger went up. “Second. His friends were decidedly not looking in our direction.”

“So, they’re secretly laughing at you?” Nicole said befuddled. “I didn’t hear any laughter. Did you Dad?”

“Nope.” Joey shook his head and chewed on a fry. “I think our dear old Michael here is overworked. His eyes say they should be shut.”

“I am. But, I am sure. I am sure that I am right because when they passed us again, he gave me a smile. He was teasing me. Also, it’s loud in here, or was, so but they were laughing.”

“Just for fun?” Nicole said slowly. “Dad, Dad is right, you’re tired, overworked, and overthinking. Why would some random strange guy hand you ketchup, and say you look boring as a joke? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Bullying doesn’t make sense,” Michael shot back. “It’s irrational. And there is more to it which I didn’t want to add before because our food was getting cold. He didn’t just hand the ketchup over. He told me after I asked because you, young lady, should be studying, there had been a party, and it’s too bad I didn’t join them.”

“They’d like for you to buy them some beer,” Joey replied reasonably. “He was buttering you up, Michael.”

“That sounds very gross, and no, because the party was over. It’s been over. Why would he butter me up, when the time of the drinking, which you shouldn’t do until you’re 60, Nicole, has passed? He was making fun of me. He and his college friends.”

“Why?” Joey asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Your wisdom astounds me, Joe. I think we all know that.”

Silence fell between them and seemed to have also fallen upon the rest of Klawicki's. Chairs were empty, empty plates and cups were scattered on the now dirty tables, and the owner himself was half asleep at the counter.

“I think,” Nicole started, hesitated, looked at her hands, and then continued. “Dad, I think he may have liked you.”

“No,” Michael said in unison with Joey’s confused “What?”

“Let’s look at it this way,” she said and placed the flats of her hands on either side of her plate, “Nicole 101.”

“That makes less sense,” Joey said.

“Thanks, Joe.”

“No, dads, it makes perfect sense,” she replied. “He saw or heard that we were out of ketchup and then used that as an in, to talk to you. And then, he indicated that he was sad you did not have time to talk.”

“Well, he did also say he hoped to see me again,” Michael said.

“See,” she said and looked to Joey who seemed doubtful and confused. “And the suit has nothing to do with you being boring, Dad, it might just have been like a way of uh.”

“Buttering him up?” Joey asked.

“Something like that. Maybe it was a compliment. A little extra.”

“But that’s odd. That’s weird, honey,” Michael said. “That’s not how adults befriend other adults. That’s not how humans for that matter befriend other humans. He didn’t even give me his name, and I didn’t give him mine. It was more of a ships passing in the night, or rather Klawicki’s, ordeal.” 

“Dad,” Nicole sighed. “He wasn’t trying to befriend you, he hit on you.”

“Huh,” Joey let out.

Michael stayed silent. Frozen. Expressions going left and right. Disbelief. Acceptance. Confusion. Disbelief.

“Do I look-,” Michael started but was interrupted by Joey’s: “How do you know about these kinds of things?” “And that too, mostly that,” Michael said. “First the latter and then mine.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. “But I am 14 and I have a – a Zach.” She sighed at their puzzled yet concerned looks. “Dads, it’s obvious what happened. This guy saw Dad and took his chance, and then was sad that he didn’t meet Dad earlier, and then forgot to give his name, and then left. He hit on Dad, but kind of failed”

“That does explain why he stood so close,” Michael spoke to himself. “That does make sense, but I don’t look – his, what are they called, his gaydar must be bent.”

“That doesn’t make sense at all,” Joey said, seemingly agitated.

“Jealous?” Michael asked.

“Why would I be jealous?” Joey said, sounding offended. “I think he was just making conversation because- let’s say the guy is gay, okay, wouldn’t it make sense if he assumed, you know...”

“Assumed what?” Michael asked.

“That you dads are a couple,” Nicole suggested as Joey seemed to be struggling. “It makes sense, we’re sitting together, and you are my dads. Plural.”

“He was really risking everything for me huh,” Michael joked.

“And also,” Joey started ignoring the joke. “If the guy is gay why would he hit on you?”

“Maybe gay men find me attractive. Wait? Are you mad my Zach didn’t hit on you? What? You’re so sexy that when I’m near you I look like a toad, to be honest, that’s sometimes how I feel but so the logical conclusion-.”

“Yeah, I mean-.”

“No, you don’t,” Michael bit back. “Or yes you do, but the situation is that some guy found me approachable and then took the liberty to hit on me, I didn’t notice, but it happened. You’re not the most attractive guy in the room Joe. For a moment in time, it was me. And, you don’t want to admit this Joe, but you are jealous that gay men find me more attractive than you, Joe.”

“One college kid, Mikey,” Joey corrected.

“Yes… is that gross? Don’t ruin this for me. Anyways, we’ll never see him again probably, but I’m more attractive to gay men than you. I don’t know why this makes me so happy.”

“I’m going up to study,” Nicole said and left them before she got a headache.

“It’s one guy, one in however many gay men there are in the world,” Joey shot back. “You know, I’ve got an idea.”

Chapter Text

Joey's idea the day before had bloomed into the situation Michael now found himself in: standing in his friend’s doorway quite uncomfortable about the whole thing, but he just couldn’t give Joey the satisfaction of letting him win by default. He might as well die.

He knocked twice on the doorframe to alert Brian, who was sitting by his desk reading a magazine, of his presence.

Brian diligently invited him in at once.

Michael took a breath and decided to jump straight into it. “Brian, you’re-,” he started, gesturing vaguely with his right hand trying to find the appropriate word to use. 

“I'm available, yeah, have a seat,” Brian said and pointed to the chair across from him. 

Michael did so but while keeping his attention away from Brian. Some might call it stalling, but he felt like he was, yes, he was stalling. So he looked at his tie, then at Brian’s few decorations scattered on the shelves (by a decorator) behind the man. A few diplomas, a picture of his mother and some poetry books he hadn’t noticed before, and then he looked rather apologetically at Brian.

“Something wrong?” Brian asked concerned which helped tighten the knot in Michael's stomach.

Michael leaned a bit backward in the comfortable chair meant for clients, and felt like he was just grimacing painfully as if the chair and not the situation was awkward and somewhat, indeed, painful.

It all felt too personal. The space, although decorated by a minimalist, felt cramped. He didn’t speak with Brian about personal things even if it was in order to prove something to Joey. Personal things belonged between Joey and him and when the personal was too personal, he talked about it with his future attractive psychologist named Roberta who would nod thoughtfully and ask about his mother, meaning no one. 

Brian glanced at his open office door, and lowered his voice: “Is your boss being an ass?” 

“No, no, nothing like that, I mean my boss is an ass,” Michael said and followed his gaze. “Mind if I-?”

“Please.”

Michael, feeling his friend’s concerned stare on him, stood up to shut the door. He quickly found his seat again so Brian’s eyes wouldn’t start piercing his skin.

“Then what’s the problem?” Brian asked. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it we can talk about something else.”

Michael sighed and took the leap: “I just need your opinion on something as a- as a gay man.”

“Okay?” Brian said puzzled. 

Michael’s next words were vomited out, “You know Joey, unemployed artist who l live and raise a daughter with.”

“Michael,” Brian said taking on an uncharacteristic serious tone. He sat straight as if they were closing an investment deal and not what was to come. “Whatever feelings you have for-.”

Michael’s eyebrows went up, “No, no, no, you misunderstand!” he spluttered. “Nothing like that. No, Joey and me are just pals, you see, this is different.”

“Oh,” Brian said. A critical smile slipped through. “What about him?”

“Do you think Joey is an attractive man, like, would you for instance, if he was gay, which he is not, go out with him?”

He thought about it for a good minute before revealing his judgment. “He’s not really my type looks-wise.”

Michael’s eyebrows went down to their original position and then lower. “Not your type? So he’s not attractive?”

“I mean, anyone can recognize beauty,” Brian said, “but beauty doesn’t equal attraction to the subject, I mean person.” 

“That makes sense,” Michael said. “That makes sense. So you think Joey is attractive but he’s not- uh - he’s not sexy.”

“I suppose you can say it like that,” Brian said. “Why - do you find Joey attractive?”

“Yeah, no,” Michael said. “I mean, I’ve known him for a very long time and he’s always been the most attractive guy in the room. Always. I tell you, it’s been very frustrating growing up in his shadow. Literal shadow. He’s always been taller. He also got facial hair really early, looked 30 at 10, and started dating very early. He was straight out of the womb and out on the dating market. And, uh, he’s a funny guy. He’s also very spontaneous, but he’s passionate about everything he does. And he’s a good father to Nicole…He’s got a lot of good qualities, I suppose.”

Brian nodded. “So you think he’s handsome, but not sexy.”

“Yeah, but, Yeah… I mean… it’s the beard, I think. Definitely. I don’t like beards. I like my partners hairless in that area, at least, uh, but I think what women or people like about him, find attractive about him, is the beard. He claims I’m jealous of it, but I’m not. He fits it really well, too well, but I don’t.”

“Yeah, and why are you asking me about Joey?”

“Well, this is going to sound very silly but you know how Joey and I are - we tend to compete. So, yesterday-.”

“So… you know, it’s only fair that Mikey asks his friend about me and I ask you about him,” Joey explained a bit flustered. He was still keen on his little competition but when it came down to it, it might have been less than ideal, not that he was going to admit that to Michael who would tell him something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’

“You win if his friend admits that you’re dateable and you lose if I admit attraction to your yuppie friend.”  

Truck sat thoughtfully in his cozy chair, mulling it over. They were hidden away in a small coffee shop, which functioned as Truck’s muse, but the coffee and pastries were also a huge plus. 

“I have to ask, what if it is a draw?”

“We cross that bridge when we get there,” Joey said, “But try to ignore that he’s a, you know, yuppie. Just looks-wise, is he, you know…”

“He’s cute,” Truck admitted, and Joey sighed defeated. 

“Joey,” Truck said and put a comforting hand on Joey’s shoulder, “No man is a representation of the entire group to which he belongs… but I am also compromised.”

Joey looked up, a slight spark in his chest alight. “Compromised?”

“I am myself seeing someone who, while not being exactly like your Michael, is a, and I hate to say it, yuppie.”

“So I need to figure out a new plan,” Joey said, a great reassured smile spread his lips as he started to feel giddy and hopeful.

“No, absolutely not!” Michael said later that night. 

They were seated on the couch, a Nicole-less spot between them, in the living room waiting for their daughter to finish her call with Zach in her room so they could continue movie night, which consisted of popcorn and Back To The Future on VHS. 

“Why not? Chicken? And besides, it’s the only way to truly know!” Joey insisted.

Michael rolled his eyes, “I’m not chicken, I just think it’s a bad idea and before you say I cannot know whether the idea is bad because we haven’t tried it out yet, I’m basing my opinion and judgment on previous ideas by Joey Harris and let me see, it was a bad idea that declared none of us the winner, although… I still have my college kid, who I wouldn’t date in a million years, but truly, ships passing in the night.”

Joey shook his head, not wanting to admit his annoyance, and perhaps, if he was completely honest, slight, vague, jealousy.

“What are you guys talking about?” Nicole asked from behind, scaring them both.

“Honey, don’t do that,” Michael said while Joe patted the space for her to sit. She quickly found her spot.

“How much of that did you hear?” Joey asked.

“Chicken,” Nicole said. 

Michael and Joey’s eyes met above her head, debating whether to tell her.

“Dads?” She sighed. “Is this about the guy at Klawicki’s?”

Michael and Joey’s eyes met yet again, rather painfully this time.

“Kind of,” they both admitted awkwardly. 

“I really don’t understand why you’re so hung up on that,” she said, looking at them curiously and then at the paused image of McFly on the hoverboard. 

“It’s not quite like that,” Joey said.

“Then what’s with the competition?” she asked, because of course their daughter knew and could read them like open books.

They told her about what they had been doing earlier that day.

“And now the knowledgeable Joey thinks we should go to a, well, a club or a bar, places you should not visit until very old age, but which are frequented by men who enjoy the company of other men and see who gets approached the most, it’s silly.”

“It is silly,” Joey admitted, “But it’s a good plan. You’re the one who's always concerned with numbers and objective facts and here we’d get real numbers. Objective facts, numbers, from people who have never seen us before. It's fair.”

“We shouldn’t invade their space just to prove a point which in the big scheme of things doesn’t matter. Who cares if gay men love me more than you? I don’t,” Michael lied.

“I mean,” Nicole voiced up and grabbed the remote more impatient for what happened to Marty McFly and his parents than her own dads. “It doesn’t sound like that bad of a plan.” 

Chapter Text

They stood at the corner across from the club their only two gay friends had both suggested, thus it had to be good despite the low hum of Madonna’s "Express Yourself" which they could hear from where they were hugging themselves in the cold.

“Are you going to admit that this was a bad idea now?” Michael asked, looking at Joey through his breath. “Because if you’re going to, I’d like for it to happen before we freeze to death and leave our daughter an orphan.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Joey replied, “you’re just nervous.” He was trying to stop his teeth from chattering. In all honesty, he was kind of nervous himself, not that he’d admit it. “And it’s your friend who is late.” Because they were waiting for Brian who had wanted to come along with a friend.

“Brian is never late for anything,” Michael said and looked around. It was dark and cold, and Joey was right, he was nervous. When he went out, he didn’t go to clubs in which people danced intimately. He went to quiet bars with quiet jazz with a quiet date who’d look at him over a small candle - quietly. It was always already properly planned too. This was more spontaneous, gay, and Joey, which required him to improvise. Which meant Joey would win. He could kiss the college-kid-points goodbye. 

“We’ve been looking all over for you!” A voice called from down the street. The co-parents turned to two familiar figures dressed in winter coats. The larger of the two also wore a green artsy hat. 

“Finally,” Michael said, clapping his hands together, at the same time as Joey said in realization: “That’s his yuppie.”

“What did you say?” Michael asked, turning to Joey, feeling a bit shocked. “That’s his yuppie?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Joey started apologetically, “he told me he was dating someone who does the same stuff you do.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I only found out a few days ago.”

“And where were you this past week?”

“At home,” Joey said, “but, I didn’t know it was him. I’m as surprised as you are, Mikey.”

Michael didn’t get to respond because Brian and Truck had reached them. Apparently, that horrible night Nicole had broken her leg at camp had brought the two together, and then they’d grown closer while renovating her room which had eventually led to several dates and them officially becoming an item. 

“It’s really all thanks to Nicole,” Brian explained smiling at Truck.

“She’s got a talent for bringing people together,” Joey replied softly and met Michael’s warm gaze for a second. 

By the time they stepped indoors and descended a couple of steps to the bar’s stone floor, Madonna had become something French, the cold air had become warm and thick with alcohol and sweat, and the natural dark that had once surrounded them became a little less dark under the low light from the ceiling lamps. In the middle of the rather small room was the dancefloor already crowded with bodies moving to the beat.

To the left against a brick wall were a couple of booths, almost all filled. The one closest to them was occupied by a couple thinking they were hidden from sight, the next Truck and Brian disappeared into and the final one, two more down, was occupied by two drag queens deep in discussion about something or other. How they could discuss anything over the loud music that would ring in Michael’s ears for weeks afterwards was beyond him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Joey’s mouth close to his ears, making Michael think he was already going to break one of their rules, or back out. 

Their rules were simple. 

(1) We don’t know each other;

(2) Don’t initiate the approach; 

(3) Don’t talk about Nicole; 

(4) After 45 minutes we meet in the restroom; 

(5) The one with the most guys after two hours wins. 

That seemed fair, they had agreed that it was fair, and Joey didn’t break his promise to follow the rules. In fact, Joey had made sure that they were as out of sight as possible for his move. The only light on them was the Emergency Exit sign, which needed a fix.

“May the best man win, babe,” were his rather giddy words.

Michael glanced to the side at Joey who was giving him a confident smile. He was practically twinkling. How was he so confident? Was it his groomed beard? His earring? His purple shirt under his denim jacket? His fitting black pants? Was someone already eyeing him from the crowd ready to kill his college kid? Did it matter?

He grabbed at Joey’s denim-clad arm and pulled him close. Maybe it was a mistake. He was suddenly aware of Joey’s all-too-familiar cologne and the way his own freshly shaven cheek was dangerously close to Joey’s own bearded cheek. Maybe it was under the influence of their environment, but Michael wanted to feel Joey against his skin, but he didn’t dare, and instead spoke into Joey’s ear: “You’re on, babe.”

When they parted, they were strangers. 

Ten City’s "That’s the Way Love Is" was reaching its first minute mark while Joey Harris scanned the dance floor for an opening. It seemed the best place to start at the moment, after all, he could dance (several women could attest to hours passing by in his arms) and he had danced with his guy friends plenty of times. What was the difference? All you needed was to move your hips and let the music take you.

Then his eyes fell on someone in the crowd who seemed to beckon him into the sea of people. The man looked to be Joey’s (young) age, dressed to impress in a red Hawaiian shirt Joey himself had debated putting on. Whatever anxiety had been flickering in his chest dissipated as he gracefully danced himself into someone who introduced themselves as Darius. 

Michael found himself a seat at the end of the bar. A bar was a safe spot. He could buy himself a drink, or, if he was very lucky, someone would take pity on him and buy him something.

He glanced carefully over at Joey who let himself be swallowed by the crowded dance floor. He had thought of going there himself, and he could dance to an extent, although his best days belonged to the 70s disco scene when all you had to do was clap while watching better dancers steal the show. It just didn’t seem right for him.  

“Taylor?” The sound barely managed to push itself through the music, discussion, and people asking the clumsy bartender to hurry it up already. “Michael Taylor?!” 

Michael turned in the direction of the voice to a man in his 50s. He had short gray hair, a graying mustache, and looked like he had just come from work the way he was dressed in a black suit and loose tie. It occurred to Michael they almost wore the same outfit, just that he had lost the tie. Brian had recommended no ties. It wasn’t a formal event they were going to after all. 

“Do I know you?” Michael asked. He felt more like he was miming than speaking.

The stranger found himself a seat next to Michael and decided to sit too close for comfort so they could hear each other. He was distinctly aware of their knees touching.

The man leaned in close. “Lenny Hayes,” he said, and they shook hands. “You must remember me from the PTA meetings - let me buy you a drink.”

His stamina wasn’t what it used to be, and the enclosed air didn’t help either. If Joey had been completely clear-headed and not busy breathing heavily and feeling sweaty, he’d argue that he was in peak condition. In fact, he’d had a girlfriend once who had told him that a man’s stamina peaked at 30, and now he was maybe a bit older than that.

But all in all, it didn’t matter. He had Darius, and that made him feel good. Darius was way better than the kid Michael boasted about. The kid didn’t even have a name!

For a second he indulged himself, and let his eyes be pulled towards where he knew Michael would choose to sit. There was an older guy beside him. Their heads were close together as if they were sharing something intimate.

It took some shouting, but Lenny Hayes was a 56-year-old divorcee, realtor and father of Gretchen Hayes, who Nicole must’ve talked to. They were in the same grade after all. They, Michael and call-me-Lenny, had met a couple of times before. Michael had even commented on the sleek Cadillac he drove. His ex-wife claimed it was a mid-life crisis buy, but he was not having a crisis, he was having the best time of his life.

Michael feigned recognition, leaned back from the man’s alcoholic breath, and drank some of his free beer. He could not remember seeing this man’s face before. When it came to the parents of Nicole’s classmates he was in the habit of remembering mothers. That wasn’t necessarily his fault. It was mothers that for the most part showed up to meetings, in his and Joey’s experience at least.

“I thought you -,” whatever Lenny Hayes was saying got swallowed up by the volume of their surroundings. He tried reading Hayes’ lips to decipher what he said.

“What did you say?!”

Hayes’ sweaty hand touched his left arm and he leaned in close again. “We could go somewhere else,” he suggested. 

Michael shook his head and held up his beer to signal that he’d rather finish his beer. Someone lifted a glass in return at the other end of the bar. It was a young guy in a white top. He gave Michael a smile before sipping his martini. 

Did he just accidentally toast with the man? Should he count it?

Was Michael toasting him? Joey wondered for a hot second. He was waiting for Darius’ cocktail and his own beer by the other end of the bar when Michael suddenly lifted up his glass, but he was toasting the guy to his left. No way was Mikey already at 2 points. 

How was that even possible? 

He took a breath. 

Maybe he was being a bit vain, and a bit childish, and letting his jealousy run away with him. 

Michael was a good-looking guy. He could admit that, in fact, he had never doubted that Mikey did look good. He had actually never thought much about it. Michael was Michael, and Mikey was allowed to have other men find him attractive. Right? 

Also, the night was still young. He still had Darius, and Darius was going to introduce him to his drag queen friends and drag queens counted. 

When Michael had finished his beer, whatever song had been playing died out, and Hayes took his chance to rephrase his drowned question in the brief quiet. “What about Harris and you?”

“What about Joey and I?”

Hayes chuckled confused. Again he was close. His hand still on his arm. His second mojito of their acquaintanceship was heavy on his breath. “You’re sitting here alone. Doghouse?"

When he didn’t get an answer he continued, a bit more concerned but also a bit hopeful: “Broken up?”

Finally, it clicked, and for the second time in the span of five days, he had to clarify his relation to Joey. “No, Joe and I are not together. We’ve never been together. We’re just two friends raising a daughter together.”

“Really! Wow,” Hayes said, his hand on Michael’s arm tightening.

“That’s a surprise?” Michael asked confused looking at the hand. 

How long did 45 minutes last?

It was quieter in the booth. The music was still loud, but they didn’t have to yell, which made it easier to be introduced to Jane Collins. Their friend, a queen by the name of Ima Vers, had disappeared with another girlfriend. 

Jane’s mission was to resemble, not necessarily look like, Joan Collins. “She’s not evil, she’s just doing things her own way,” Jane explained about her character, Alexis, in Dynasty. She crossed her legs which revealed much of her pale thigh. She wore Alexis’ suit, she explained, which was a red skirt, a red jacket, and a matching hat. 

“The moment it is off the air no one remembers,” she said when she noticed Joey’s lost look. 

“Oh no, my daughter watched some of that,” Joey let slip in order to not lose the conversation, and damn, he broke a rule. God, his thoughts sounded like Mikey. Mikey who was still sitting with that guy.

“You got a daughter,” Jane said intrigued. “Your guy’s got a daughter,” she told Darius who excused himself immediately to go to the restroom.

Jane scooted closer. Their thighs touched. Her perfume was sweet and flowery. 

“Is there a mother in the picture, or are you single?” she asked. She had blue eyes, he noted, blue eyes, like Michael who was on his mind again, him, and Marcy. Marcy and Michael.

“She’s passed on."

“I’m sorry,” Jane said, she put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Must be tough being a single dad.”

Joey let his eyes flicker to the place where he knew Michael was still seated, with that guy on his arm.

“I’ve got Michael,” Joey revealed. It couldn’t hurt to mention Mikey. She wouldn’t know who he was. 

“Michael,” she said. “Honey, that’s not by any chance the man you came in with?” 

For a second it felt like his heart stopped pumping blood. “Who? No, I’m alone,” Joey lied. He had been sure they were out of sight when he had spoken to Michael last. 

"I don’t know who the guy was,” Joey rephrased. It felt wrong to say it. He knew Mikey. He had known him since forever. He knew what he wore, what he ate, and the air he breathed. He knew what made him happy, annoyed, and uncomfortable.

His gaze flickered back to the guy beside Michael.

How much time had passed?

“Despite my look, I don’t want to end up in the middle of a lover’s spat,” she explained calmly, which brought Joey’s confused attention back to her. He felt nauseous. Why did she read them like that? 

“You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t know you,” she said amused. 

Joey looked at the watch he’d remembered to strap to his wrist. Fifty minutes had passed.

Chapter Text

“But you’re gay, right?” Hayes asked. His tone was uncertain. His hand felt uncertain.

Uncomfortable, was a weak description of how Michael felt when he attempted to lie: “I’m uh….”

“You like men, right?” Hayes corrected himself. “Why else are you here, Mikey?” 

'Don’t call me that,’ was what Michael wanted to say but his throat was dry as a desert.

He also wanted to say: ‘Sure.’ It wouldn’t be a complete lie, because he did like men. He liked friendly men. He liked funny men. He liked Joey. As hard as it was to admit, deep down, he did like Joey. In fact, he liked Joey perhaps a little bit more than most heterosexual men who had had the pleasure of getting to know him, but that was environmental damage from growing up with him and living with him talking. If Michael hadn’t been polluted by his boyish, unemployed charm, he might have thought differently. He might even have been married by now, and instead of sitting in a gay bar, he’d be playing cribbage with Mrs. Taylor and the Petermans at the country club. No Joey. Nicole every other week. The idea didn’t sound that good to him anymore if it ever had.

So, sure, he liked men, but at the same time he was almost positive that it was the platonic kind, because who hadn’t experimented under the influence in college - right? 

“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” Hayes commented with a less than sober chuckle. “Don’t be shy.”

Shyness was the least of what was halting Michael as he ended up on: “I’m… curious?”

Hayes seemed satisfied with that. “Curious, I like that,” he hummed. 

“You do?” Michael said. “That’s great?” 

“Of course that’s great,” Hayes said, having misunderstood him. “That means I can be your teacher.”

“Excuse me, what?” Michael asked. He did not want to entertain what was on Hayes’ syllabus. 

Hayes requested more drinks for both of them, but Michael protested. “No, I really, really need to go to the little boys room.” 

“I’ll keep watch over your drink,” Hayes reassured him sternly. He patted his arm, winked, and finally let go. 

When Michael rose from his seat, Joey took his chance to excuse himself.

“Won’t be long,” he promised Jane, who gave him an unimpressed skeptical wave as he started his journey to the sound of “Domino Dancing” across the dance floor.

At the halfway point he had danced past a few admiring eyes, and he strongly debated boasting about it to Michael who he spotted standing some feet from the bar in a not-so-subtly panicky manner. Understandably so, since they had agreed to meet in the restroom, yet not taken the time to learn where it was located. 

Herein Joey was in luck because he had seen where Darius had disappeared minutes earlier. 

Joey gave Michael, who had started scouting the dance floor, a bright smile, which he finally noticed and responded to with a disapproving look and discreet pointing at the older man behind him. The man was too busy snapping at the young bartender to notice.

And Joey was too distracted by Mikey to notice he almost stumbled into a petite blonde who swung around just in time to put a hand on his chest right where his final button was buttoned, meaning not that far up and just below the chest hair he was rather proud of.  

“Hey, you got a sixth sense,” Joey joked and the guy responded with confusion, removing his hand and pointing at his ear, and mouthing: “Can’t hear you.”

Joey leaned over. Up close the guy was partly glazed with sweat. “I said you got a sixth sense,” he repeated, in the same tone as before. 

Confusion didn’t leave the stranger's face but he invited Joey to dance with him.

A tiny voice somewhere within him told him to accept the invitation and dance a song or two with the guy. After all, Michael was watching from the sidelines, but, after all, Mikey was waiting by the sidelines. “I gotta go,” he said and unintentionally motioned that he was moving in Michael’s direction.

The stranger met him with understanding and disappointment, “Oh, boyfriend… enjoy your night,” he replied and disappeared between some other bodies.

“Again?” Joey thought to himself, buttoned himself up, and finished the journey without as much as a thrust of the hips.

“We got to be careful, Joe,” Michael said in a loud whisper when the restroom door was shut behind them. 

Just like the bar itself, the walls, which were noticeably graffitied, were of brick and the lights were low, but unlike in there, the restroom was colder thanks to the lack of people and a broken window.

“What are you whispering for?” Joey asked and took his chance to do his business in one of the three urinals. 

Michael folded his arms and looked away to the three stalls on the other end of the room. Two of three were feet-less, while the third one had two pairs of feet. Michael hoped that it was a centaur doing breathing exercises. Did centaurs have human or horse legs? He looked with concern back at Joey who zipped up.

“And - and wash your hands,” Michael ordered, his voice definitely not shaky.

“Will do, mom.”

Michael re-turned to the stalls. It was like ants were crawling up and down his legs with their tiny ant legs. They should’ve planned to meet outside. He wanted to be outside.

“We should talk outdoors,” Michael said. He was trying to not listen to what went on in the stall. He didn’t have a problem with it, he told himself, honestly, what happened behind closed stalls was between those in the stalls, and not him and Joey, who were very much on the outside of said stalls. 

“Why?” Joey asked. He threw the paper napkin into the bin like an athlete would shoot a basketball through a hoop. 

“Why? Joe? There are people in here,” Michael whispered and said a little louder: “Not that we have anything to hide.” 

“He won’t be in there forever,” Joey said. He was suspiciously certain and giddy about the third stall only having two feet in it.

“He? If you haven’t noticed -,” Michael started but the centaur’s stall opened, and in Michael’s own mind, the hinges squealed.

A non-centaur in a shirt that looked like something Joey would wear walked out, gave Joey a nod, looked either at or through Michael, and left, not washing his hands. 

“That’s my point,” Joey said giddy.

“No, no, no, you don’t earn points in here!" 

“I danced with him earlier.”

“Good for you,” Michael joked. “Now, can we please talk outside? Your point wasn’t alone.”

Quietly, they made their escape, only being noticed by a tired bouncer who hadn’t been standing in the door before. 

In the warmth of the bar Joey had forgotten how cold it was outdoors. He wanted to run back indoors to see if he could find his denim jacket which had disappeared at some point during the night. 

“Why isn’t it bothering you, Joe?” Michael asked when they had walked down an entire block. 

“The cold bothers me as much as it does any other mortal man,” Joey said. His teeth chattered. “Maybe a little more right now.” 

Michael looked at him, simultaneously amused and a bit annoyed. He had his hands in his pockets. 

Joey wished he had pockets. Why had he put on pants with fake pockets? Better question, why had he been convinced to buy pocketless pants?

“No, no, I mean, the guy,” Michael said. “ Your point. Doesn’t it bother you that he was with that other guy?”

“Not really.” Joey shrugged. The question puzzled him, because who cared what their points did? To Joey at least, the guys were just pawns in their little competition. It wasn’t like they were cruising for relationships.

“Not really? So it’s a me thing?” Michael asked, confused. “I don’t know whether to feel honored or not.”

“What do you mean it’s a you thing?” Joey said and stopped. Michael followed suit and turned to him. 

“Well, Joe,” Michael started. “Remind me again why we are doing this game?”

“Hey, if you’re going to give up, that’s fine by me,” Joey replied and would have grinned weren’t it for the fact that he remembered the old guy: “Did the guy say something to you?”

“You mean Mr. Lenny Hayes?” 

A light went on in Joe’s head. He knew the name, and he knew the guy. He didn’t know the man from behind but he knew him from the front. “The old man is Gretchen’s dad? Gretchen’s dad hit on you?” He asked in disbelief. 

“You know the guy?” Michael asked in an equally disbelieving tone.

“Yeah, we met him at a PTA meeting. Don’t you remember the Cadillac he drove?”

“How in the hell did he mix us up?” Michael grumbled offended. “He thought I was you, Joe!“

“I would take that as a compliment,” Joey smirked at Michael who gave him a very unimpressed look. “But hey, screw all that if he said something inappropriate to you.”

“Well, only that he’d like to teach me the ways of the gays. Not exactly in those words.”

“What did you say?” Joey asked. His mood turned a bit sour. 

“See!” Michael cried and pointed at him for emphasis. “It’s a me thing. It’s a me thing!”

“What’s a you thing? Repeating yourself?” Joey asked. He didn’t feel any better. “How much did you drink?”

“Oh, did I solve you, Joe,” Michael said smugly. His first bright smile of the night stretched across his face.

“Come on, Mikey! What do you mean it’s a you thing?” Joey asked and unconsciously took a step forward which led Michael to take a step back in the direction of the brick wall behind them. 

Michael continued to walk backwards as he spoke. “You, my friend.” He pointed at Joe who was keeping up with him. “You, my friend. You’re not vain, or well, you are, but Mr. Joseph Harris. Tell me why we’re here again.”

“Because you agreed to compete,” Joey said, feeling colder than the temperature was making him. Uncertain he clenched and unclenched his fists. So right he was a bit vain, but Michael didn’t need to hear him admit that. 

“Because I agreed to compete,” Michael repeated and rolled his eyes. “Sure, Joe. We’re here because of me.”

“Yeah! Because you agreed after you started proclaiming you were God’s gift to gay men!" Joey said, unintentionally raising his voice. "After that college kid–.”

“Aha! Oh, I cracked the code, Joe! You’re not jealous that gay men like me more than you.” Michael’s back hit the wall. Their little dance stopped. “You don’t like that men like me. Period. Why else would my college kid bother you and not Darius’ thing?”

They stood close. Michael blinked up at him and his bright smile died down. "Oh, Joe,” he said quietly, realizing something Joey couldn't see, or rather, realizing something Joey wouldn’t let himself see.

Chapter Text

Nicole stepped over the sleeping form of Shelby and as quietly as she could hurried out of her room and down the staircase, but then stopped before her bare feet could touch the loft’s cold floor. Snoring was coming from the couch, signaling to her that her dads were finally home.

They hadn’t heard anything earlier that night, so either Joey and Michael had been very late or Shelby and her had been too deep in conversation about New Kids on the Block or listening to New Kids on the Block or fantasizing about New Kids on the Block. The night consisted of so much New Kids she had become uncertain whether she still liked them or not.

Curiously, she went over to the couch. Michael was still dressed to impress in his not-work-suit but he was also wearing the jacket Joey had worn when they’d left. The sight compelled her to look to Joey’s bed, which was not out.

Something felt off. 

But then again, maybe Joey was inside the wall? It happened that the bed wheeled back into its cave and Joey woke up in the dark, confused. On those occasions Michael would always comment, very amused, on the impracticality and plain abnormality of his sleeping arrangement and maybe crack a joke about hibernation. So, either the bed had wheeled in by accident, or, maybe on purpose. Maybe Joey had lost the competition they’d had and was hiding in shame in front of the sleeping victor (wearing the loser’s jacket for some reason) on the couch?

The thoughts didn’t reassure her and she didn't want to wait until breakfast to find out if Joey was home or not. So, she went over and, at first, knocked politely, hoping for a "Huh" or "Five more minutes."

There was no answer.

She pulled the bed out.

It was as unmade as Joey had left it that morning. 

Maybe Joey was just out with a girlfriend, she reassured her speeding heart, but, then again, he always told her when he went out on dates, and, also, her dads hadn't gone to a place where women, or, at least, straight women, hung out. Right?

Fiddling a bit with her hands, she returned to the couch and shook Michael awake. 

He furrowed his brow and then blinked in a sleepy daze.

“Dad, where’s Joey?” she asked, trying to keep the worry at bay.

Michael swallowed a yawn. “Sweetness,” was his weak greeting. He looked over the back of the couch to Joey’s unmade bed.

“Where’s Dad?” she repeated scanning his face as if any and every part of it could reveal something. 

“He’s not here?” Michael asked and sat up straight.

“And why are you wearing his jacket?”

Michael looked at the sleeves covering his arms. “Joey’s jacket. I’m wearing Joe’s jacket,” he stammered confused, and immediately started pulling it off.

“Did something happen?” Nicole asked, hoping she didn’t sound as frantic as she felt.

Instead of a verbal answer from the still-sleepy Michael, her answer came in the form of the loft’s door opening. It was as if a plug was pulled and relief flooded in with Joey and two boxes from Klawicki’s. Breakfast.

Joey had brought banana pancakes. They managed to dissipate some of Nicole’s worry, but something had definitely shifted between her dads. For one, they didn’t talk. Michael had been reading the same newspaper page for the past ten minutes, while Joey was still stuck on the same Garfield strip. 

“Those pancakes were really good, Mr. Harris,” Shelby said awkwardly, attempting to create some noise, but her words didn’t do much.

“Yeah, uh, Klawicki knows his stuff,” Joey replied, giving the girls a nod and a smile, but his eyes clearly made circles before they landed on them. He was forcing himself to not look across the table at Michael who still, even if Joey’s eyes didn’t land on him, shrunk a bit. 

Shelby nodded awkwardly in return at him with an awkward smile resembling an uncomfortable grimace, and with that job done, Joey looked back to the lasagna-loving cat that had yet to and would never, do something new. 

Shelby leaned into Nicole, arms touching, and whispered: “They’re not fighting.”

Nicole looked between her dads’ bent heads. She wished they were fighting. It was welcomed. Arguing was part of their routine after all. This? This was worse than awkward. What in the world could have happened last night!? It wouldn’t be tactful to ask and maybe, she hoped, it would blow over soon.

Who had she been kidding? It didn’t blow over. For the next seven consecutive days, Michael and Joey didn’t look at each other, didn’t talk to each other, and had, Nicole was sure, not even breathed the same air. When one of them inhaled and exhaled the other held his breath. At least, that’s what it felt like. 

“If I don’t do anything soon they’ll get a divorce,” Nicole told Judge Margaret Wilbur miserably and took a long sip of her second milkshake which Klawicki reassured her was on the house.

“Nicole,” the Judge started. Nicole looked at her hopeful for the solution. Perhaps she could talk to them. Fix them. Fix this. Create an elaborate prank that would make Joey and Michael mad at each other so they’d fight and make up through arguing. She’d been discussing a few ideas with her friends, but as children of divorce, creating a confrontation resulting in parents staying together wasn’t their forte. Also, Nicole had gotten second thoughts about a prank because of the very real danger of pushing her dads further away from each other. 

The Judge, however, did not come with a gift-wrapped solution. “It’s not your responsibility to keep your parents together,” she reassured her.

Nicole sighed disappointed at her expectations. “It kind of is,” she admitted, wanting to look away from the Judge who raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

Nicole hesitated. “Well, Judge, it’s kind of my fault,” she said, guilt heavy on her tone.

“What’s your fault?”

“Over a week ago there was a party here,” Nicole started.

Judge nodded. “I remember. I shut it down.”

Nicole continued and spilled it all. The college student. The competition. The gay bar.

The Judge went from concerned to amused and then back to concerned. “And your dads being idiots is your fault how?”

“When they were talking about going to the gay bar I confirmed that it was a good idea. I didn’t really think anything of it. But, something happened that night and now they’ve been ignoring each other since Saturday,” Nicole paused to take a shaky breath. Her next words were spoken quietly: "It's my fault."

“Listen, Nicole,” the Judge said sternly and made sure to catch Nicole’s eyes while she spoke. “What happened is that your dads decided for themselves to do something stupid. You are not at fault for that. Something happened. You weren't there. It’s not your fault.”

Nicole blinked. She didn’t want to cry. “Judge,” she said in a tiny voice. “If it’s not my fault then I can’t fix it.”

“Honey…,” Judge put a comforting arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “We’ll fix this.”

Chapter Text

Joey sat in front of an almost perfectly intact slab of stone. He was very aware of the movement in the living room while he ran his hands over the slab’s cold surface. He studied a vein while listening to the heels of leather shoes tap against the loft’s floorboards. He tapped the stone with a finger. There was a creak. He snapped at the stone with the same finger and reminded himself to fix that board so Nicole didn’t one day end up with her foot through it. Then, there was the sound of paper being shuffled. He lightly kicked the slab with his heel. A hum, a ha and a briefcase closed. Joey slapped the slab. There was silence.

He didn’t look up but he knew Michael’s eyes were on him. He knew he stood there, his grey coat over one arm, and a countdown clock ticking down to when he had to be at work going amok in his head, yet hesitating. He knew he wanted to say something to break the thick tension in the room, most likely, make a joke about Joey’s new carving methods as if they both didn’t know Joey was desperately waiting for Michael to get out or for Joey himself to snap so he could make him get out. 

Earlier that week Joey might have been too distracted to acknowledge Michael. In the early hours of the day, he might already have been hitting the chisel with the mallet, making something loudly, deep in work, and maybe singing Kokomo by the Beach Boys, if not playing it loudly on his ancient boombox, just to shut Michael out, but now it was getting difficult. When they were in the same room, it was difficult to breathe. It was like he was diving without a snorkel, like back in Key West when he’d hunt Michael’s skinny legs underwater just to hear him scream when he wrapped his arms around him or emerged right behind him. But now, he couldn’t reach the surface. He couldn’t even look at Michael, and it pissed him off. 

Because no way had Michael figured Joey out. Right? 

Michael’s words, “Oh Joey,” had escaped to the surface and out of his pink dry lips. In their brief suffocating silence, their bodies had become a shared flickering silhouette briefly surrounded by taxicab headlights. For a few seconds in their artificial cocoon Joey had looked briefly at Michael wetting his lips, anticipating more yapping that could pull the string Joey desperately needed to be pulled to unravel whatever was going on between them.

Nothing had come out. Instead, Michael had done the annoying stalling he always did by putting a hand in his pocket and the other in his hair, scratching himself as if that solved anything.

Joey had felt like grabbing the back of Mikey’s neck and pulling him close, but with the cars passing by, all out in the open, almost naked, it had felt dangerous.

“What?” Joey had instead asked stiffly.

“Naah,” Michael had answered nonchalantly, his other hand had gone to his other pocket and he had looked at the polluted city sky. “I swear Joe, the stars used to be brighter.”

Joey had let out an annoyed breath of air. “Come on! You said you’d figured me out,” Joey had said, feeling the infuriation of annoyance melt away the stiff coldness of his frightened confusion. If he had just been able to breach whatever kept him from grabbing Michael as he always did, or place a hand against the wall just by his ear, trapping him and forcing him to yap, please, yap , or playfully hitting the side of his head like it was all a gag. “What did you figure out?” He had asked.

“Nothing,” Michael had said, voice hoarse. Joey had sent him a look of disbelief, which Michael hadn’t answered with a glance, but with a “I’m just…,” continued with a weak attempt at a playful punch in the shoulder, which barely grazed his shirt, and which had ended in a “Fooling.” 

Before he could lower his arm again, Joey had grabbed Michael’s wrist and leaned in, almost knocking their foreheads together. “Fooling, yeah,” Joey had aped. 

“Your breath stinks,” Michael had said.

“Right back at ya.”

“Now will you please let go of my arm? It looks like you’re robbing me.”

“Not until you spill what you figured out.”

Michael had given an indefinable sigh. “Fine. You know what Joe?” 

Joey had felt his heart speed up and knocking against his rib cage.

“You’re,” Michael had said and made sure to use his free hand to point at him to stress his words, “Vain. Can you let go now, please?”

“Only if you can stop being so difficult.”

“And you’re the simple one?” Michael had asked. His second smile that night also breached the surface.

“I need some air,” Joey had muttered. 

“We’re outside, Joe,” Michael had cracked and his next words had been more distant as Joey walked the other way. ”Come on! Joe! Does this mean I win?”

Back in the present, Joey let out a heavy breath when Michael finally left. He felt like letting out a loud yell. Push over the slab. What he didn't want, however, was the Judge on his ass.

Chapter Text

Michael half-heartedly scanned the titles that occupied the Barnes & Noble shelves in front of him, half listening to the women in business attire chatter around a personal growth section, while waiting for Brian who was looking for a gift for his hubby. None of the titles he saw seemed very promising:

Allen Carr's Easy Way to Stop Smoking. 

What to Say When You Talk to Yourself. 

Women Who Love Too Much.  

Being Happy!

All problems he was almost sure he did not have. He had stopped smoking many times. He knew exactly what to tell himself in every possible situation, both good and bad (This will end in my premature death!). He yearned for a woman to love him at all and he was - his eyes landed on Looking For Love In All the Wrong Places.

Sadly, none of the books were called How to Deal with Your Dimwitted Best Friend - Turned Dead-to-me Turned Co-dad of the Most Amazing Little Girl to Ever Grace this Earth - Having a Big Ol’ Gay Crush on You in Six Easy Steps. If he had known the answer, he’d hire a ghostwriter, and BAM , he’d have Nicole’s college tuition in the bank, a non-loft home in the Hamptons, and a luxury dog house with in-door plumbing just for Joey. Or, maybe, as the shelves were hinting at, he was overestimating the relatability of his problems and he’d get stuck with a bunch of unsold copies Joey could use for a new art piece titled “Taylor: The Art of Homo-Idiocy” which also would never sell.

He could always talk to an expert in the field, but he really did not want to corner Brian and say, “You know what you thought about me and Joe? It might be a little bit like that.” 

He also did not want to talk to Judge Margaret Wilbur about it. He couldn’t put into words how much he loved her for seeing him and Joey as good parents for Nicole, and he knew that she would never take Nicole away from them even if Joey happened to harbor whatever feelings for him, but his neurotic self just had to whisper doubt into his ears. He had been disappointed by people before. But, there was also the additional problem with the Judge that she’d look at him, right into his soul, and ask, knowingly, Do you feel the same way?

When Joey had left Michael to stand alone in the cold, only being lit up by the occasional taxi on its way to more popular straight areas of the city, he had felt terribly, terribly cold, and frightened, that he had fumbled their newly repaired-ish friendship, but what was he supposed to have said? Joseph, Joey, Joe, you big lug, you, don’t kill me now, think about our precious daughter’s future, she needs me as much as she incredibly enough needs you and, when I say what you don’t want to hear, I think you’ll want to kill me to death with either a fist or a kiss. Both would kill me. If you counted death by Joey at 30-something years old as a good outcome, then by those standards, he should’ve told the truth.

Instead, he’d protected himself with jokes, told a half-truth, and been left alone to trudge back to the gay bar to tell their friends that he had won and lie about feeling good about it. Throw in a few whoops of joy to make it more believable. 

And, as luck would have it, when he’d re-entered the now-claustrophobic bar, all alone, the speakers had sang You think you’re a man but you’re only a boy just to toy with him personally, and then, as if God didn’t think that punishment enough, Lenny-something had been waving drunkenly at him from the bar, but someone else, dressed exactly like Joan Collins, had also waved him over from her seat in one of the booths just by Truck and Brian’s table. He had debated just ignoring her, but she had been the best alternative, which was something he had become certain of after he had passed Truck and Brian who had been in an embrace that made Michael’s cheeks hot. 

Jane “Joan Collins” Collins, of course, had handed him Joey’s denim jacket, said something about a lover’s quarrel, and offered him a drink. He’d pulled on the jacket, so he wouldn’t forget. It smelled like sweat, Hai Karate, and the hair products Joey used. It smelled like Joey and he’d accepted the offer. He had, after all, won.

Chapter Text

The jacket was gone. 

Joey had looked in every nook and cranny of the loft, the laundry room, Klawicki’s, and a fling he’d entertained just to get out of the loft’s apartment for his precious denim jacket. It had been part of his wardrobe for up to a decade by now and was as much him as he was himself at this point, and now it was nowhere to be found. It was gone!

Admittedly, he was well aware of the fact that he had not looked everywhere. He had yet to brave a phone call to the gay bar because of various excuses ranging from they’re probably closed to I don’t want to be reminded of that night, which was a little too late when all the missing jacket made him think of was that night.

Just to be sure, Joey checked under the couch for the third time.

“Dad, what are you doing?” He peeked up at the sound of Nicole. She was seated by the bike table munching down cereal. 

“Just looking for my denim jacket,” Joey said, “have you seen it?”

She paused her cereal-eating and furrowed her brow, “Hmm, I don’t know where it is, but last time I saw it, Michael had it.”

“Michael,” Joey said to himself, “Michael, Michael, Michael!” Of course, Michael had taken it, but for what nefarious reasons? 

“Yeah,” Nicole said, paused, went to put her bowl in the sink, and then confirmed her answer seeming befuddled, “Michael.” Then she found her bag that was leaning against the kitchen counter. “Uh, anyways, I’ll be down at Klawicki’s making sure Shelby doesn’t flunk math.”

“Good luck, honey,” Joey said. 

“I’ll do my best.” She ran up to him and kissed his cheek goodbye.

The kiss, like every other kiss he got from his daughter, made him feel a little better.

He flopped down on the couch defeated and watched her sprint to the door and pull it open in record speed only to reveal a wide-eyed Michael with a newspaper under one arm about to push the door open with his other arm.

“Impressive, sweetie, but mere speed does not a great doorman make,” Michael said and looked after Nicole who, without a kiss, disappeared out of sight and into the elevator. “Sorry, Dad! Raincheck?””

The elevator door was already shut before Michael could utter a disappointed yet brave-faced, “Sure, honey.”

Joey looked at the ceiling feeling his stomach knot up. It was not a feeling he was used to anymore. It had long ago been reserved for the past when he'd argue with his father over his future and with Michael over Marcy.

"Rainchecked by my own daughter,” he heard Michael say to himself when the loft’s door shut behind him. “Yes, honey, I’ll teach you about the exciting world of economics, such a wonderful thing that you’ve taken an interest in my work, next thing you know you’ll have an office next to mine with an adjoining door,” he continued, and tap-tap-tapped his way across the floor.

Joey took a deep breath and sat up to face Michael for the first time in weeks, but the movement spooked Michael who yelled. 

“Why did she have to get that from you?” Michael squeaked and then cleared his throat, “What’s the matter with you, Joe?”

His name sounded almost unfamiliar coming from Michael's mouth.

“You’re just easily spooked, Michael,” Joey replied. He couldn’t help letting a smile slip through his annoyance with the situation but decided to stand up, hoping some gravity could help whisk that loving feeling he had sorely missed away.  

“Easily spooked? I’m living with Michael Myers and Michael Myers Jr, over here,” Michael joked while he walked over to his desk under the staircase, “Who, by the way,” he continued, “is a lot cuter than her father.” He put the paper down and turned back to Joey. “And, honestly, I don’t see the resemblance.” 

Thankfully, Michael's yapping helped him cut to the chase, “Cut the crap, Michael, where’s my jacket?”

"Sorry, what jacket?” Michael asked confused.

“You know,” Joe said frustrated, “my denim jacket. Nic said you had it last, now, where did you put it?” 

“That was like two weeks ago, Joe!” Michael said. “Have you looked under the couch? The last time I had it I was on the couch.”

“Yes, I’ve looked under the couch. Why did you even have it?”

Michael leaned on his desk, “If you gotta know, Joan Collins gave it to me. I don’t believe it either.”

“Okay,” Joey said, he put his hands on his hips, “And then you took it home?”

“Yes, Joe, then I took it home. What is this, 20 questions?” Michael asked irritated, “I told you, I last had it when I was on the couch!”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me for asking,” Joey said. 

“Then don’t get mad at me! I don’t know where it is! Have you tried looking behind the couch?”

“Michael.”

“What? Do you want me to lie to you? You’re getting colder, Joe, or warmer, because I don’t know where it is!”

“Michael!” Joey repeated knowing it wouldn’t stop Michael from anger-yapping some more.

“You asked me, Joe, and I’m telling you,” Michael said feigning being unbothered. He pushed himself off the desk and moved for the door. “And, now, I’m going to go back down to Klawicki’s. If I happen to see it there, I’ll tell her you’re sorry and that you need your baby.” 

“Shut up will you!” Joey said and moved in to block Michael’s way out.

Michael tried side-stepping him, but Joey followed each motion. “Can you let me pass, Mr. Larry Bird?” Michael asked, not meeting his gaze, and then made another futile attempt to get around him. “How do you want me to shut up if you won’t let me leave?” He stopped in his tracks and then looked straight into Joey’s eyes. “Don’t you dare kill me. Our daughter-,” he began but then swallowed his words when Joey cradled Michael’s head with both hands and dived into a kiss which had Michael moaning against him and tugging his hair, and meeting his lips like they were a buoy keeping him from drowning. It spurred Joey to eat his way into Michael’s mouth. He wanted to bury himself in him.

Then he felt Michael let go and push at him hard. Joey let go and took a step back, his heart was beating a mile a minute as he stared wide-eyed at his friend who was deathly pale and equally wide-eyed. What was he doing? And, then, the realization he had refused to confront hit, “Is that what you found out?” he sputtered at the same time as Michael again asked what the hell was wrong with him.

“You’re killing me, Joe,” Michael said breathlessly. “Yes,” he pulled Joey back down into a kiss that had Joey scrambling for coherent thoughts.